


Infatuated

by IncandescentAntelope



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst, Business Executive Katsuki Yuuri, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Drinking, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Sexual Content, Stripper Victor Nikiforov, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Swearing, Unenthusiastic Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri just wanted a drink. What he got was a lot more than a whiskey on the rocks.





	1. let me be good to you

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi hi this fic was inspired by this gorgeous [art](https://twitter.com/teardews/status/1093814041213104129) by Le (@teardews) on Twitter, I'm dead and it is 100% because of the way they draw Viktor's thighs, RIP me, this fic was written by a ghost. 
> 
> Viktor's Setlist- [Click Me!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMDPEX1g1Df0Ryz_krRy9W5ZtPo7VGZyU)  
> chapter title lifted from "good to you" by selena gomez. (y'all will notice the pattern soon enough lol)

He just wanted a _fucking_ whiskey. That’s it. Something to ease the tension mounting behind his eyes after that infuriating meeting with the Russian branch. Just something stiff enough to help him forget the way Vasily’s unders had sneered at him as they rejected his proposal. Bastard hadn’t even shown his face to destroy seven months of work. Just sent low-level cronies. So _goddamn_ disrespectful. He had flown halfway across the fucking world for this. A redeye from Tokyo, all that wasted time for nothing. Yuuri grit his teeth as his hand began to shake, the ice rattling in his glass. The Japanese man swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquid, pressing out a hissing breath.

The bartender was pretty to look at, porcelain skin, dark hair, bright blue eyes. But from the melodramatic sighing and heated arguing with a scowling blonde (who looked far too young to be spending a Tuesday night in an establishment like this) at the end of the bar, he wasn’t interested in idle small talk. He didn’t need to be fluent in Russian to know he was complaining about a significant other, in vivid detail and wild gestures. 

The lights dimmed and the thudding bass swelled in his ears, a wave of pink and purple light flooding the bar. _Oh. It’s that kind of bar._ He noticed a few neon signs flickering to life, outlines of bodies in various positions of power or submission. How he hadn't noticed the multiple poles in the room was absolutely beyond him. It had probably been the frustration. And the three low-balls of whiskey. He hadn't been in a place like this in… years. 

Yuuri shook himself from the memories as he tossed back the rest of his drink with every intention of finding another bar. And he probably would have, if that flash of silver in the purple spotlight hadn’t caught in his periphery. A shimmering ribbon of molten platinum floated in the air behind him, and he could only see temping glimpses of him through the crowd. His breath caught in his throat at the first sight of his face, such a perfectly sculpted jawline could slice open his fingers if he dared touch it. Porcelain skin a perfect shade of ivory that Yuuri imagined tasted like vanilla. That long sheet of silver tucked carefully behind an ear, sweeping fringe draped over one eye, a single blue eye piercing through the smoky room.

He was completely entranced as mile-long legs ascended a set of stairs and crossed to the largest platform in the room, the crowd hollering what Yuuri assumed were lewd and unsavory compliments. His basic Russian course had taught him scant little, forget anything that could be used in an establishment like this. He didn't want to know what they were saying about the angel that had sauntered center stage in bright pink pumps, wrapped in skin-tight black leather that cut high on his hips. The plunging neckline of that leather bodysuit revealed the center of his chest down to his sternum, and Yuuri felt his tongue flick out to wet his lips at the thought of tasting that flesh. Just for a moment. _Embarrassing_ , nearly drooling over a man like this. 

The man on stage made a slow circle of the upright pole in the center of the platform, a velveteen coat the same shade of pink as the shoes hung lazily off his shoulders, revealing long, broad slopes that betrayed just how strong Yuuri knew the man was. All of this to say nothing about those deliciously muscled thighs, looking like they had been hewn from the same alabaster marble as David. Yuuri could imagine an infinite number of less pleasant ways to die than suffocating between those thighs.

Under the lights, his silver hair looked like a dusty pink, the color echoed in a burst of the same shade over his eyelid and swept over his cheekbone. A feline wing of eyeliner drew every shred of Yuuri's attention to the brilliant flash of his crystalline aquamarine eyes. Suddenly the whiskey in his glass tasted like champagne and the jeering calls of the crowd had dulled with the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wp0hWIO8DiU). Yuuri gripped the wood of his barstool, anything to keep him bound to this plane of existence as the man on stage threatened to send him to whatever eternity awaited him.

It wasn't until the man began moving in earnest that he noticed the chain dangling from his throat, a glittering gold length with thick links, suited more to a dog than every one of Yuuri's fantasies made manifest. The chain hung from a pink leather collar of sorts: an illusion of attainable control over this wild creature. Yuuri knew better. This silver-haired beauty wasn't meant to be tamed. He showcased the muscle of his shoulders and chest because _he_ wanted to. Yuuri was allowed to see the mouthwatering roll of those hips because the silver-haired vision had deemed it worthy of flaunting. Yuuri admired the muscular and fleshy swell of his ass grinding against nothing but air because _he_ wanted him to.

Yuuri watched as the dancer hooked a long leg around the pole and threw his head back, his spine arched in a sinful curve. The slow roll of his body stole Yuuri's breath away, pulling himself back up with the strength of his core alone. The waterfall of hair shimmered in the pulsing lights, a ghost of a smile curled the corner of pink painted lips. Yuuri didn’t dare hope it to be so, but for a moment, just a fleeting moment, he met those brilliant eyes, and a flutter of silver eyelashes glittered like spider’s silk as he winked. _Winked_. At him. Or maybe at someone in his general vicinity.

Yuuri knew better than to hope he had actually winked at him. Dancers didn’t do that out of genuine interest. Patrons had money. God knows Yuuri had done some regrettable things for the notes in his patrons’ pockets. 

He moved as if he was made of silk and feather, defying every law binding him to the physical world as he lifted himself off the ground, those heeled feet barely kissing the floor as he spun around the polished pole. Yuuri watched as those pink lips mouthed the lyrics to the song. Yuuri’s jaw dropped at the sheer athleticism of it, suspending his weight from fully extended arms. Maybe in another life he would have been a dancer. Like Yuuri had hoped to be. He could easily see the man center stage, wrapped in silk and velvet of a different kind, those long legs extended in a flawless arabesque instead of spread wide in an inverted split. 

Yuuri’s breath stuttered as the man descended to the floor again, his silver hair spilling over the edge of the platform. Colored notes landed around him in a flurry, a rustling of paper and shouts of ‘more’, ‘again’, and the man in front demanding he ‘use a different pole’.

Those glittering eyes flashed sharply at the man, and a single snap of black-painted fingers had a pair of men escorting the disruption out. A satisfied little smile curled at the man’s cheek as he tucked the notes away and the next [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SCaWesth9U) began. A slow, sultry thing that had Yuuri utterly transfixed and moving away from the bar, filling that recently vacated seat near the stage. He sank into the leather armchair, feigning some level of ease as he drew that much closer to the man and his perfectly sculpted body. Those black fingernails traced the muscled lines of his form as his spine arched and bowed, silken tresses sent splayed through the air with a quick shift of his position. The man rolled onto his stomach; showcasing the feline curve of his spine and the seemingly endless stretch of his legs as they flexed and bent at the knee, heeled feet kicking up, pink leather nearly kissing his rear. 

He pressed a long finger to his parted lips, that single blue eye met Yuuri’s gaze again, a peek of pink tongue licked at the whorl of his fingertip and a chill ran down his spine, settling hotly in his core. A pang of fresh arousal coiled behind Yuuri’s navel as the man pressed himself up off the floor, that lithe body on full display. From there, Yuuri could practically taste the salt of his sweat, see the shining beads of it on his brow and between those powerful and milky thighs. He could hear the soft sounds of his labored breathing as his body contorted into those gorgeous and enthralling shapes around the pole. 

A long leg hooked around the pole, the other extended parallel to the floor, his weight firmly supported in the curve of his hip, the pole between his shoulder blades as he spun. Every slow rotation had a pair of bright blue eyes meeting Yuuri’s. The Japanese man tried to remind himself that he was only looking because he was the odd one out there, a foreigner among a sea of blue eyes and fair hair, in the front, eye level with the scantily-clad beauty wrapping himself around a pole with the sleek ease of a python in the trees. The crescendo of the song had him tucking that long leg in, spinning with dizzying speed, his hair a rippling wave of lustrous gossamer. The man pulled out of the posture and dropped back to the floor, tossing that sheet of silver back again, and Yuuri swore he could smell the rosy scent of his shampoo.

The next [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=satAFJr5EX0) began, something Yuuri had heard before. A bright beat behind a woman’s voice crooning the secrets Yuuri found too easy to imagine falling from those full lips. He didn’t know what the man’s voice sounded like aside from those soft, huffed breaths as he danced, as he cast his spell. He rolled his body with sensuous precision, a kiss blown to no one as he stood, towering and strong. Yuuri could see the definition of every muscle in those legs, and with the shifting light, the tone of his abdomen and chest. Wolf-whistles and catcalls echoed in the room and the man grinned crookedly, running his hands through his hair and mouthing the lyrics to the song.

A coy hip cocked up, casting a glance over his shoulder at the notes that had fallen on the stage after the second song. Yuuri swallowed thickly and plucked a few notes of his own from his breast pocket, setting them neatly on the platform. Those lips curled in a gentle smile and as soon as Yuuri could blink, the man had pressed his stomach to the floor again.

Yuuri recognized the tiny movement of his lips, the smallest whisper before he plucked Yuuri’s folded notes from the ground with pearly white teeth. It wasn’t the lyrics to the song, as he had seen earlier.

“ _Spasibo_.” he mouthed, and Yuuri bit his lip against the urge to return the nicety. He knew that trick. He’d used it plenty of times. But this dancer, this man, this otherworldly creature… he couldn’t look away. Not as he climbed to the top of the pole again, not as the music seemed to be written solely for the way his body twisted and rocked in that skin-tight leather. 

As soon as it had begun, the dance was over; he was collecting the colorful pieces of paper and ignoring the gathered onlookers begging for another dance, among other unsavory things. But all Yuuri could think about was being that close again, to see those lips whisper something again, anything. Even just to hear his voice. As the man disappeared behind that velvety curtain with a flick of silver hair, Yuuri made his mind up, jumping out of the armchair and looking for the cashier.

He barely held his composure enough to walk and not run. He had to be closer. 

_“VIP room.”_ he said in his fumbling Russian, stuttering over the unfamiliar words as he read them off the wall behind the counter. _“Silver hair.”_ he said, regretting that he didn’t know the dancer’s name. The chestnut-haired man behind the counter chuckled lightly as he plucked the wad of notes from his hand.

“Of course, sir.” He answered in English, his Russian accent curling around the words with a purr. “I can assume you know the rules?” Yuuri nodded mutely as the man pressed a button in the countertop. “Through the curtain, room four. Time starts as soon as he walks in the door. Fifteen minutes, alright?” 

Fifteen minutes? Damn, he probably overpaid. But that was far from the point. He could pull more from his account if he needed it. His heart hammered in his chest as he made his way through the crowd, past a few more of those circular platforms, poles of their own stretching up to the ceiling. Most of them occupied by half-naked bodies spinning around them with ease. Yuuri's memory of the toll made long-healed injuries twinge, Yuuri knew about the bruises they disguised well, the aches and pains deep in muscles that nothing seemed to soothe away. The dislocated ribs and shoulders.

The only thing keeping Yuuri in that goddamn bar was the thought of being closer to those eyes, those lips. Even if he couldn't touch them. He felt pulled in like gravity, those blue eyes intense and burning in the dark. He had hated clients like him. The ones who felt… like this. The moony eyes and hero complexes, the ones who tried to save him, the _‘I’ll come back for you’s’_. But Yuuri wasn’t like them, he wasn’t going to make those condescending promises. He knew the man didn’t need them or want them. But that didn’t stop the thoughts. 

Imagining those arms wrapped around him, those full lips meeting his, dancing over his throat, toying with an earlobe. Yuuri loosened his tie at the thoughts, his imaginings growing more and more torrid the closer he was to that beaded curtain. Peeling that leather off with his teeth, of running his tongue down the length of that inner thigh, to see if he could make it tremble. The curtain was pulled aside by a steely-eyed heavy with an undercut and a sharp jaw. 

_“Don’t touch.”_ He warned in Russian, pointing at what was obviously a list of rules. He didn’t need to know what it said to know how to act in that chair. It hadn’t been too long since he’d been on the other side of it. Yuuri pushed the door open and settled into the chair with a centering breath.

______________________

The red light was lit over room four. Maksim had pulled him out of his dressing room for a private dance. With a foreigner. Excellent. Didn’t know the currency. 

“He gave me 35,000 for you. Safe to say he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” He cooed in Viktor’s ear, laving a heated kiss at his throat. “See if you can work more out of him, Cнег, baby.” Maksim had grinned wide and crooked, ruble signs spinning in his eyes. Viktor rolled his eyes and pushed past him, pulling the candy floss coat around his shoulders and tossing his hair.

A foreigner he could handle.

He hoped it was the man from the front row. Those eyes, the flush on his cheeks. He had stolen a small moment with those eyes, a small ‘thank you’. He knew better than to hope he’d be swept off his feet by Prince Charming. But a fool could hope. And Viktor had certainly been told he was a fool enough for it to be true. A fool for moving to the city, a fool for thinking he could pay his way through school without his parents, for thinking they would let him dance on the same boards the greats had once graced. A fool for trusting a man like Maksim. But he’d eat his earnings from that night before he would go home empty handed. 

He finished touching up the highlight on his cheekbones, the ivory foundation at his hairline and temples where sweat had streaked it away. A swipe of gloss over his lips; no one’s kiss would be smearing it tonight anyway. 

But a fool could hope. 

Viktor rapped a knuckle against the thin door, a small confirmation came and he gave a sharp half-nod at the heavy posted at the curtain to start the clock. He settled into that sensuous purr as he strode through the door, hoping he had outwardly held his composure at the sight of those amber eyes blinking widely at him again. He quickly crossed the floor, swaying his hips with the slippery ease of a panther, drinking in the attention of the man in the chair.

He circled him like a predator, taking long, smooth steps, one foot in front of the other and smiled at him through silvery lashes. He let the coat slide further off his shoulders, like a layer of skin dropped by a snake. He wished he had more clothing to shed as the man reacted to the garment's removal, a surely involuntary flick of tongue over his lips, a flutter of long, ebony eyelashes. Viktor drew close enough to hear the shivering breath, tucking himself in behind the beautiful foreign man.

“What brings you in tonight?” he sighed in the man’s ear, slipping into that breathy, half-moan he knew drove men crazy. His midnight blue suit felt expensive under his fingertips, the collar of his white shirt still stiff and starched, the oaky notes of his cologne nearly drowned by the smell of the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, ah, do you speak English?” the man replied in heavily-accented Russian. The dancer tried not to smirk. At least he was trying. It was almost… cute. 

“Mhmmmm. I speak English. Et Français.” He wrapped his arms languidly around his shoulders, running long, alabaster fingers down the front of his chest, dancing cleverly over the black silk of his tie and teasingly toying at the pearly buttons of his shirt. “But if we have time to _talk_ … we aren't having nearly enough fun.” he crooned as he hooked a long leg over the man’s shoulder, knocking his thighs apart with a nudge of those pink heels. A soft, hitched breath fell from his lips. _Perfect._

With a fluid motion, Viktor slinked around the chair, flicking his hair over his shoulder as the coat dropped to the floor. He rolled his shoulders forward and back, showcasing the defined lines of his collarbones, carefully scanning the man’s face for a reaction. He was nearly unreadable aside from the flush on his gently rounded cheeks and the quick flitting of his eyes up and down and across and around his body. His hands remained perfectly still at his sides, his eyes were narrow but the mahogany brown of the irises glittered in the scarce light. They almost glowed behind his glasses.

"What's your name?" his voice was soft, almost… tired. A strange contrast to the usual groaning that accompanied men trying to control their breath, biting their lips against the urge to touch.

"Cнег." He replied, most of the patrons didn't ask him for his name, simply calling him some permutation of _'baby’, 'sweetheart’, ‘darling’_... it made his stomach turn. And those were the polite things they called him. 

"Snow... pretty." the man said, far too reverent for the present situation, Viktor’s half-naked body on lewd display just inches from his face in a dingy back room of a run-down club. “Снежный… like нежный.” he murmured, and that name… _tender_ … Viktor didn't mind that one.

Something about this one was different. Maybe it was the gentle gleam in his eye, despite the obvious clench of his thigh and the tent in his trousers. The molten amber eyes that slaked over his every rolling movement, watching transfixed as he ran his hands up and down the front of the bodysuit. Hands that stayed rested at his sides. He might have found the mumbling off-putting and worrying, if not for the way it felt like honey in his ears. The words were unfamiliar, but they sounded soft in his mouth. 

Something pulled him forward. Forward and into the man’s lap, legs hooked around the back legs of the chair, the heat of their bodies in such proximity sparked something in Viktor. Something warm and hungry under his flesh. His skin was soft at the nape of his neck, where Viktor had realized his hands had wandered. The amber of his eyes was nearly occluded by black pupils, his lips were just slightly parted, a small, pink tongue flicked out over dry lips. Viktor rolled his hips, stopping just shy of that straining bulge. He hooked his fingers into the collar of the man’s jacket, gently sliding it off his shoulders and over the back of the chair, a simple but effective way to restrict handsy patrons. But this was more for Viktor’s sake than for the sake of the rules. 

He wanted that man to touch him. He craved those hands running over his body, he wanted those hands to be the hands raking through his hair, to be the hands on his hips as they canted forward and back atop his thighs, to have been the hand that had pulled the chain around his throat instead of… 

“ _God_ … you’re beautiful.” came that gentle voice, a bit more strained than before. 

“Thank you.” He purred in his usual way; the silky tone seemed disingenuous, the way he exaggerated his breath and elongated the ‘u’ tasted bitter in his mouth. “So are you.” 

The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. The truth forced its way up his throat and into the heated air between them. He could practically feel Maksim's controlling touch under his skin, crawling into the pit of his stomach with bile and acid. He could hear his voice telling him to coax more money from the man. Viktor knew he could, the huffing breaths were coming faster as a lip was pulled into his mouth. He could work another dance out of him. Another wad of cash in his belt.

When the single knock on the door came, he didn't want to pull away. He didn't want to leave the room, he didn't want to leave the heat of his body. He wanted to keep moving, he wanted to keep those eyes on him, he wanted to feel just the barest touch of his skin on his cheek. Both men released a shaky breath when Viktor pushed away, chests heaving for different reasons.

A second knock sounded at the door, Otabek's voice carrying through the thin barrier.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, just making a drink.” Viktor returned, quickly slinking to the drink cart and pouring a glass of whiskey for the patron, who was still sat perfectly still in the chair, albeit flushed and catching his breath, and a shot of vodka for himself. He quickly suppressed the uncomfortable half-hardness swelling in the bodysuit.

“Two minutes, Cнег. You have another customer waiting.” 

He scribbled something on a napkin and folded it in half, tucking it into the man's jacket as he set the glass in his hand. “Take as much time as you need, sweetheart. I had fun.” He crooned with a wink over his shoulder. “Come back and see me again, won't you?” his usual goodbye felt overly saccharine, syrupy and artificial. He tossed back the vodka and sauntered out of the room, a weight dragging behind his feet. How could he dance again after _that_? 

“Alright, which room?” He asked the younger man stationed just outside the door. 

“Yours.” Otabek replied with a tight jaw. Viktor bristled. Not tonight. For god’s sake, any night but tonight.

“What? No, I still have two sets left tonight.” He argued, knowing full well that his plans didn't mean anything. There was no arguing. 

“I'm sorry.” Otabek replied in a way that made it seem obvious he knew what went on behind closed doors with Viktor and the manager. And that it was something that deserved an apology. 

He was waiting for him in that dimly lit room when he arrived, he looked out of place, lounging on the plush velvet chaise, among the feather boas and the rack of salacious ensembles he had planned to wear that night. His shoulder-length hair was pulled into a tail, the placid and charismatic smile he usually wore on the floor wiped from his features. He didn't waste a single moment; the same second the door was shut and the lock turned, those emerald green eyes flashed venomously at him. 

“What was on that note, Vitya?” 

______________________

Yuuri read and re-read the note a thousand times that night. 

_please come see me again soon  
нежный xxx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I've left this fic a bit open-ended, I might continue it into a larger series, we'll see. If y'all wanna read it, I'll give it a try. XD I had a lot of fun working on this story based on the gorgeous art I linked in the beginning notes, please go give Le a follow on Twitter. (and me while you're there!)
> 
> (edit 2/13/19) MORE IS COMING MY FRIENDS I AM WORKING ON THIS I PROMISE I HAVE PLANS
> 
> Kudos and comments fuel me and this angst fest ❤️
> 
> I REGRET NOTHING
> 
> ❤️ IA ❤️  
> [Tumblr](https://incandescentantelope.tumblr.com) | [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/IAtheAuthor)


	2. it feels oddly good to hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I’ll be okay/ admiring from afar/ ‘cause even when she’s next to me/ we could not be more far apart [Dodie, She]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will be updating a playlist with all songs mentioned with every update <3 [click me](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMDPEX1g1Df0Ryz_krRy9W5ZtPo7VGZyU)

The napkin felt heavy in Yuuri's hands, the hurried penmanship pulled at him in an ugly way. It wasn't a predetermined action. He didn't do this for everyone. Sure, Yuuri had left a few lipstick stains under collars, but never something like this. He hadn’t noticed it until after the dancer, Cнег, had sauntered out of the room. A thousand unsaid words died on his tongue, swallowing against the urge to say the things he was sure Cнег had heard a thousand times. 

His chest heaved as the scent of rose finally cleared from the room. Yuuri downed the entire glass of whiskey in his hand and tried to ignore the sounds of his voice and the bouncer's, the rapid arguing in Russian. He waited until those heeled feet clicked away, shrugging back into his jacket. The hardness between his legs had started feeling uncomfortable, almost painful. He scraped his fingernails over his scalp, just sharp enough to sting, just enough to pull him out of his head. A few long, deep breaths had cleared the haze of sex and lurid thoughts from his mind, reminding himself that Cнег was a dancer, and he was doing his job. Yuuri had paid him for that. Maybe that was how clubs here wanted their dancers to act. 

Yuuri swallowed thickly and shook the last vestiges of cobwebby arousal from his eyes and stood up, straightening his jacket as he shifted. The material of his shirt clung to him where sweat had begun to bead underneath, the effort of holding his hands at his sides like not scratching an itch. He had wanted to touch him, run his fingers up and down the lines of his body, trace every dip and curve of muscle and ligament, find the places in that alabaster skin that made him squirm, the places that made him moan.

An unfamiliar lump in his left pocket had drawn his attention. The words were quickly scrawled in blue ink, hurried, like a secret. A secret Yuuri couldn't really ignore. 

He pushed himself out of the chair and tried not to think about it. He walked through the beaded curtain and tried not to think about it. He sat down at the bar and tried not to think about it. He downed two more whiskeys and tried not to think about it.

Снег didn't stride back through that velvet curtain. And Yuuri tried not to think about it. 

But that weight in his pocket started to drag him under. He had to know. He was starting to feel the way those men did, the high wearing off. He needed another hit. His eyes slid down the bar to where he had paid that man, where that blonde boy from earlier had found a seat. Yuuri swallowed the bile in his throat that someone so young worked in a place like this; shuddered at the memories of the dancers younger than Yuuri was, who lied to a manager who didn’t care enough to confirm. 

Yuuri forced his legs underneath him as the bass thudded in his ears. The whiskey had nearly replaced his blood at that point, his vision blurred double and his limbs grew leaden as he tried to move them. The blonde boy chuckled at what was probably a sorry sight, of Yuuri drunk and dizzy, clinging to the counter for support as his legs wobbled below him. 

“Is Cнег coming back out?” Yuuri asked in his stumbling Russian, slurred and wet with drink. The boy behind the counter smacked his gum and rolled his eyes.

“I speak English, you idiot. And no. He’s done for the night.” he sneered with all the charm of a wet cat. Yuuri recoiled at the venom in his voice, despite the very obvious front for something else. Probably his age. 

“Oh- I, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Yuuri replied, hoping to retract the young man’s claws.

“You’d better be, shithead. You’re holding up the line.” the blonde pointed lazily over Yuuri’s shoulder and his eyes followed, seeing nothing behind him but the crowd whistling at the dancers in various states of undress. Yuuri turned back around to the man, finding green eyes scrolling through his phone, blowing a bright pink bubble with his gum. Yuuri huffed, the drink in his veins and the young man’s attitude testing his patience. 

“There’s no one behind me.” Yuuri replied shortly, his hand gripping that glass a bit too tight. 

“If all you’re waiting for is that idiot, then scram. He’s got the rest of the night off.” the young man snapped back without looking up from his phone. 

“Huh? I- I thought he…” Yuuri trailed off as the gears worked slowly. The bouncer had said he had one more customer… maybe that’s just a safeword for them. He had had one with Peach, it was _‘the Schnapp’s is empty’_. Yuuri tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, pushing against the thoughts that he was just falling in with _those_ kinds of men. The type that thought the dancers owed them something because of the ‘special treatment’. The kinds of men that didn’t understand the art of a well-crafted facade. He had certainly dealt with them before; and he hated that he was becoming one of them. He hissed a slow breath through his teeth. “Okay. When does he work next?”

The blonde scoffed again, a smirk curling at one corner of his mouth. “He works every night. Now get the _fuck_ out of my sight.” Yuuri might have scowled if he could coordinate his facial features to the muscles connected to them. Instead he made for the door. He couldn’t watch more men dance on that stage. Not after what he had seen earlier. Not after he’d been so captivated by long legs and silver hair.

_Fuck._

He was in too deep.

Yuuri stepped out into the frigid air of early spring, snow swirling around his head in a way that made focusing on anything an accomplishment. The bright purple door swung shut behind him and the thud hammered in his head like a bell as he hailed a cab, despite the tether he felt tugging him back through that heavy door. He gave the driver the written address; every attempt to pronounce the name of the hotel had ended in a stifled laugh. The cool kiss of old leather against his heated skin quelled the flame in his stomach, as the fifth glass of whiskey had helped temper the erection. He specifically avoided thoughts of those eyes, the long silver hair that smelled like roses. 

The streetlights flashed like the whirling beams reflected by the disco ball, sending sprays of purple and pink across his skin, shining in those blue eyes that had utterly captivated him. But Yuuri shook the thoughts before they took hold, his mind was muddy enough with the alcohol swimming in his veins. He paid the cabbie the last of the cash in his wallet, the scarce bit of rational Yuuri left made a mental note to withdraw more in the morning. The elevator almost made him ill as it lifted him to the third floor. 

He dropped his jacket on the uncomfortable couch, shucking the rest of his clothes that still smelled vaguely of rose and vanilla, of whiskey and cigarette smoke. The note… the note was left carefully on the dresser. After he read the messy handwriting three or four more times.

He turned the shower tap to cold, stepping under the frigid spray; goosebumps pimpled every inch of his skin try and convince himself that he was just an excellent dancer. Cнег made a living with his dancing. And from the sizeable crowd gathered, Yuuri could guess he lived a relatively comfortable life on his earnings. And despite his difficulty understanding the ruble, there had been a lot of money on that stage. More than Yuuri had seen on a good night. 

His mind wandered to that note again, the one that he had left on the dresser, the one that had been slipped into his coat pocket after the dance. He had to convince himself that it meant nothing to the dancer. There was a zero-percent chance that it meant anything to him. It was probably just his calling card. After all, it was nothing he himself hadn’t done for a client. Cнег was just like Yuuri had been, searching for weaknesses to bring in more money, more singles tucked into the strings of embarrassingly small outfits. Right. Yuuri was just another client.

Yet… he could have sworn he saw something in those eyes as he straddled his lap. He had enticed regulars back again and again during his time. It made for a steady income and familiar faces weren’t bad; Yuuri knew how to please returning guests. But this felt… personal. 

Even after the frigid water froze any natural reaction to the memory of those lips, Yuuri couldn’t shake the thoughts that he might have been special. That it had meant something to the dancer. 

Sleep didn’t come for Yuuri that night. The dance played on repeat, projected on the backs of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes; his mind just reliving the dance in his mind on endless loop. The way his leg had hooked so seamlessly around the pole and over his shoulder, the way he made it all look so easy, despite how difficult Yuuri knew it was to move the way he did. His shoulder still ached when the weather turned, the old injury twinged at the memory of the dislocation.

Any man with a pulse would have done something about the thought of it, of those lips so tantalizingly close to his ear as they whispered. He could still feel his breath ghosting over the fine hairs of his cheek. But Yuuri wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Cнег wasn’t his to touch. He wasn’t his to imagine in his bed, he wasn’t his to fantasize about. Just to watch. After all, it was against the rules. ‘Look, but don't touch’. Don't cross that line. It wasn’t real. It was just a dance. 

Right?

______________________

“What was on that note, Vitya?” Maksim’s eyes burned angrily at him in the warm light of the dressing room, the single lamp in the corner cast his face in sharp angles and shadow. Viktor could see the angry vein in his throat, protruding and throbbing in the way that usually preceded the worst of it. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Viktor?” he snarled with lips curled back in a grotesque mockery of a smile. This wasn’t the first time Maksim acted like this, and Viktor knew it wouldn’t be the last, not by far. He at least knew he wouldn’t hit him this time.

“No, it was nothing, it was just a little-” Viktor nearly yelped when his partner stood suddenly, the emerald green chaise lounge screeching across the wooden floor; even with the heels Maksim was still just taller than him, towering over him as he took an angry step forward. “I- I swear, it was nothing-”

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Vitya.” the man hissed through a clenched jaw, his teeth bared like a predator. Heart in his throat, Viktor took a few slow steps forward, his heels clicking on the old plank floor. He kept his eyes on his feet, feeling the chain around his neck swaying as he walked. When he saw the polished tawny leather of his shoes, he looked up, Maksim’s face intersected by strands of silver hair; creating the impression of a broken mirror on those angry features. He thought of the kindness in those brown eyes, the soft curve of his flushed cheeks. His voice. 

It pulled at his heart like an anchor, the weight of it nearly too much to bear as he coiled his arms around his neck. It felt… different now, to be touching him like this, after he had felt the spark of something so heated and new and hungry and _addictive_ astride that man’s lap. The heat of this body felt both familiar and strange at the same time, not quite the same heat Viktor had known for so long, not quite the heat he had thrown himself into so blindly before. It felt like feeling the sun on his skin for the first time, and afterward insisting that a distant star was warmer on his cheeks.

“I’m not lying, Maks, but please, not tonight… I still have two sets left.” Viktor whispered, his voice a weak and tired thing in his throat. From his place tucked into the crook of his neck, he could smell his cigarettes disguised by mouthwash, the faint kiss of whiskey on his lips. He had longed to taste the whiskey on that patron's lips… maybe he could pretend, just for tonight.

“I’ve already covered the rest of your shift. You deserve a night off, you work so hard for me. Now…” the dark-haired man smiled crookedly, a sly thing that sank like a rock in Viktor’s stomach. Heated hands curled around him, one running up the length of his body in that leather between them, the other dropping to the curve of his ass, taking that fleshy swell in his hand and kneading it gently. 

A soft sigh fell from Viktor’s lips at the contact, mentally replacing that hand with the hand that had placed a few carefully folded notes on the stage, the ones currently tucked between leather and flesh. A dark chuckle filled his ear as the unoccupied hand traced the line between his pecs, the taut flesh over his sternum, dancing over the glittering chain, wrapping it around his hand once, twice. “What. Was. On. _That. Note?_ ” Maksim pulled on the chain, a hard pull that had Viktor gasping for air.

“M-Maks, pl-please…” Viktor begged as the dark-haired man held him tight against his chest, pressing his nose against the soft cotton of his shirt. He knew he wouldn’t hold him there long, he was damaged goods with bruises or marks, he’d been told as much. The chain gave the illusion of attainability that men loved. The clasp of the collar dug uncomfortably into the back of his neck.

A sharp click of his tongue, a tisk of disgust and he released the chain, Viktor spluttered and coughed as he caught his breath. The man pulled away, swearing under his breath as he lit a cigarette, smoke lazily floating into the air. “So? Are you going to tell me? Or do I need to go find that _foreigner_ and bring him back here to figure it out?” He growled, the words sounding like venom and bile as the room grew thick with the scent of that bitter smoke.

_“No!”_ Viktor cried at the thought of it, of Maks hunting him down to face this. No, he couldn't let that happen. That man didn’t deserve to be pulled into this mess with him. Viktor stuttered, searching for an answer as a chestnut eyebrow cocked up high on his forehead. “N-no, I… I just said that I hope he comes back soon. You told me to… to get more from him.” Viktor bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from trembling. Just the thought of using the man for his money made him sick to his stomach; he wanted nothing more than to curl up on that couch and disappear after what he had already done. He didn’t even know the man’s name. But how badly had he wanted to ask? Or for the man to tell him? He hid behind a false name, so the man could at least call him something… but Viktor had only the amber of his eyes to call him by, just a few folded notes and the waning memory of his cologne.

He watched as that sneer faded to something soft, or what might have been soft before tonight. Before he had seen a smile truly kind and bright in the dark, smoky air.

“That’s my Cнег baby. Always thinking about me.” Maksim’s voice interrupted the thoughts and Viktor nearly retched as his lips were caught in a messy tangle with menthol and whiskey. “You looked beautiful up there tonight.” His voice was hoarse and gravelly, the way it always was when he’d had too much to drink. The word reminded him of amber eyes and flushed cheeks. _He_ had called him beautiful. He had sighed as Viktor slid into his lap, he had seen the hunger in his eyes and the restraint he had employed to stay away. 

Viktor held onto that image as a different pair of hands pulled the nearly-invisible zipper in the back of his bodysuit, the abrasive sound of it vibrating between Viktor’s shoulder blades. Sweat-heated flesh kissed cold air as the leather fell away, the thin straps pushed off his shoulders and the entire ensemble dropped to the ground, along with the collected rubles from his first set. They fell like dry leaves to the floor, a gentle rasping against the hardwood.

“I love your body, Cнежинка. It’s a shame you can’t dance like this… bare and beautiful for me…” hungry eyes feasted on his naked form, taking a step back to admire the long and sculpted lines of his body that Viktor worked so feverishly hard for. Viktor swallowed bitterly at the name, the sound of it sharp and tangy in his mouth. “Sweetheart… I want you. Watching you dance, it was almost too much for me.” A hand traced the line of his bicep, the other cupped his cheek and pulled Viktor’s eyes to his, those emeralds glittering and intense in the darkness of his dressing room. 

Viktor nodded mutely. Arguing never made the situation better, it never helped. He was still chewing on the inside of his cheek as more clothing joined his on the floor, the chair by his vanity pulled into the center of the small room. The slick glide of lube over flesh used to wind tightly around his spine and coil in the pit of his stomach, now it felt like lead behind his navel. Not that Maksim noticed his lack of excitement as he moaned his nonsense in Viktor’s ears. 

He tried to substitute the hands on his hips for those soft hands, the murmured words of filthy praise in a different voice, the whiskey on his tongue stolen from another pair of lips, the heat deep inside him belonging to someone else. The panting _‘Viktor, oh god, Vitya-’_ belonging to amber eyes, pink cheeks, blue glasses.

______________________

His lower back and spine ached when he woke the next morning, wrapped in nothing but a thin pashmina. He had slept alone on that green lounge, Maksim was nowhere to be seen. He had probably gone home after closing up the club. Viktor’s neck was kinked and back bent uncomfortably. The couch was for decoration and sitting, he’d never slept on it. Viktor made a mental note to bring something warmer when he came back for this shift later that night. He winced as he stretched away the ache; his toes had long gone numb, long legs folded in half all night hadn’t been a help. But the pain was more than just the dancing, more than the unrelenting and frigid kiss of the pole that had sunk into his body. It hadn’t even been the way Maks had nearly torn him apart the night before. It was something deeper. Something bone-deep. An ache that had wrapped around the curve of his vertebrae, seeped into his limbs and chest.

 _You._ Viktor thought of black hair and mahogany eyes as he swung his legs to the ground, feeling the cool boards beneath bare feet. His head dropped into this hands, elbows propped up on his knees. A wet sigh rippled through him as he fought to simply stay upright, phantom hands and fingers playing with his hair and pulling at the chain still hanging from his throat. The sound that came from his chest was neither human nor animal, just wretched and weak as he flung the collar across the room, clattering to the ground with a metallic thud. It was just another one of his gilded baubles that looked nice with black. Something that was meant to be tugged… and yet… _you didn't try to touch._

Another wet sob fell from his lips as he remembered the way Viktor himself had ensured he wouldn't touch. And the way he hadn't tried. Of every single patron to sit in a chair under him, to watch him from the dark, to tuck a note into the strings and lace and stockings… _he_ was the one Viktor wanted to dance for. 

Not Maksim, not even the fucking Mariinsky Ballet. Just him. Just _you_.

What had he said? _“You're beautiful.”_. Those words had tasted like champagne on his lips, like honey and springtime. Had that man tasted him like that? What did Viktor taste like? The row of perfumes on his vanity told him it was passionfruit, or vanilla. But Viktor knew the truth. He didn't taste like anything. He wasn't meant to be experienced that way. He was just something to look at. He wasn't meant to be touched, not meant to be held. Just gawked at, just lusted after. Only greedy hands touched him. Only hands who expected something in return. Only _his_ hands could touch. 

Viktor didn't know how long he sat there, arms wrapped around his chest as his frame shook, trying to remember what his cologne had smelled like but all that came to mind was menthol. The leather still laid rumpled on the floor, and it felt wrong to even consider wearing it again, not after last night. He thought of that note again, saying a prayer to a god he knew damn well wasn’t listening that the man understood what he had meant.

When the shaking stopped, and all that remained was the tired, breathless shuddering, Viktor pulled his phone from the duffel bag on the floor, street clothes folded up neatly inside.

The taxi was called, the mess on the floor and between his legs was taken care of, and Viktor slid into a pair of leggings and a soft sweater. The chunky knit felt like home, and an overwhelming pang of homesickness struck, his finger hovering over the green button. He thought of that small house in the suburbs, his mother’s cooking and the smell of his father’s pipe smoke. 

He choked back the memories, knowing that he couldn’t go back. They wouldn’t take him back. Regardless. The taxi had arrived. And Makkachin needed to be fed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up six months late with timmy's* I can explain
> 
> I promise this fic isn't dead, it's being worked on. This fic has been and is my most treasured (solo) brain baby and I have been working on making it perfect for so long. I'm sorry for holding all of it hostage since I started writing it. Please expect more from this au. I can't promise a regular posting schedule as of now with my current projects, but rest assured knowing I have a lot of the good shittm written for this. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Drop kudos and a comment, let me know if you're interested in the fic!  
> ❤️ IA ❤️  
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